


fresh tears like a spring rain

by stellarmads



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, I am so sorry, M/M, Post Fall, The good kind of hurt, fluff if you squint, i'm so bad at descriptions help, more crying hannibal, when will i write happy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10116893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarmads/pseuds/stellarmads
Summary: Will wonders what it would be like to witness Hannibal cry.  He doesn't have to wait very long.





	

Will wonders how often Hannibal has allowed himself to cry. Truly cried, not a few tears that gloss over and slip down the crook of his nose. If he even has. 

When the silence between them stretches and Will's mind wanders from his book or a fishing fly, these type of thoughts tend to invade his space. He supposes most would think about what's for dinner, or if they should go out for more groceries. At the least he could be as productive as Hannibal and plan out their next hunt. But after years of taking in morbid scenes, snapshots of death infecting him, his subconscious has become filthy, bloody, and godless. It's the only explanation he can come up with, and he does not dare broach the subject with Hannibal. Even after a year, finally settled, almost domestic, trust is new with them.

Perhaps he cried after Mischa. French words blur in front of Will’s eyes, his lessons long forgotten. What would he look like? How would his face contort, would his body lock up or shake with grief? He hardly imagines he would look ugly. Hannibal has never looked anything less than beautiful, primal and elegant, some sort of twisted hybrid, isolating him once again from the rest of humanity.

He's not sure how deep he goes, trying to envision what he imagines to be rarer than a rose blooming in hell. Eventually Hannibal's hand on his shoulder shakes him free, and they make their way to the bedroom.

 

…

He's not sure how he pictured it happening, but it certainly wasn't like this.

“Hannibal.”

There's a grunt. Will watches him twist in place slightly, lip curling up in a grimace.

When they fell Will had been the one to take care of them, and at first he wasn't even sure they would both make it. He had tried his best to work alongside Hannibal as they both stitched up his stomach, blown open, but he knew that it hadn't healed as well as it could have. He could see how it bothered him, occasional twitches, stretching, feeling the slight twinge as if it's his own irritation.

He tries again. “Hannibal come here.”

The other man turns reluctantly from the bookshelf he's organizing. Will had rolled his eyes when the boxes came, full of medical books and replicas of the ones in his office back in Baltimore.

When he reaches Will on the loveseat, Will pats beside him, guiding him down. “You don't need to push yourself so hard.”

Hannibal tilts his head a fraction, and although Will knows he understands, he also knows Hannibal would never readily admit it, so he elaborates. “Your stomach wound. I know it still bothers you. You don't need to push yourself so hard. If it hurts, rest. Your pride will remain intact, and the world won't think any less of you than it already does.”

There's a message behind those words, and they both recognize it. When Hannibal allowed himself to be captured, it had been one of the lowest blows to his pride, his image that he had spent years constructing. Hannibal Lecter, once like smoke, untouchable, then rotting away in a dimly lit cell. Denied of everything he had surrounded himself with. Refused even the most human of needs. Will's heart aches, thinking about the days when Hannibal follows him, a few inches behind, as if scared he's going to disappear. The quiet nights when Hannibal presses a little closer, begging for Will's touch, the human contact he was denied for three years.

Something shifts in Hannibal's face, and Will doesn't recognize it, but his self-preservation doesn't scream, no primal alarms ring, warning him of a predator about to strike, so he prods gently.

“It's okay to need comfort Hannibal.”

Will feels like he's watching a glacier split in two. Cracks forming in Hannibal's mask, the steady, slow thawing of ice. The sudden crack that resonates through the air, the immediate tears that begin to fall as quickly as they formed. It's more shocking than any crime, anything that Will has ever witnessed, and he feels like he's been slapped across the face. It's fleeting, and followed by it is the overwhelming urge to be there, to comfort. It's an automatic response for Will to tug Hannibal towards his chest.

At first comes the expected resistance, Hannibal trying to pull back, making a sound of protest, but Will tugs a little harder, shushing him, and he falls into Will's chest, letting out a broken sound like he's in physical pain. Will supposes he is.

They sit there, Will petting his hair, waiting for Hannibal to come back to him, so that they can talk, but the slow descent never happens. It's almost like Hannibal is being wound up more by every tear. Shudders begin to wrack the large man's frame so violently that it's all Will can do to cling to him, hold him close, Hannibal's face pressed against his chest.

“I am ruining your shirt.” Hannibal's voice is muffled and wrecked, to the point where Will would not believe it was his voice if he were to rely on sound alone.

It's a new form of heartbreaking, one that Will is sure has never been experienced by mankind before this moment. So like Hannibal to worry about the material things first, about Will first, not even taking his own state into consideration.

Will presses a kiss into his hair. “You're more important than my wardrobe Hannibal.”

Another shudder makes it's way through the both of them, and Hannibal let's out a mix between a moan and a wail, like he's in utter agony. Will can feel him bury his face against his chest again, inhaling deeply. He supposes his own scent is both comforting and overwhelming. Not unlike to this moment.

He's not sure how long they stay there like that, until the sobs subside to heavy breathing, shudders fading, his body limp from exhaustion. Will knows that they should talk, right there when the emotions are fresh and raw, hanging heavy in the air, but as Hannibal pulls back, his face tear-streaked and eyes swollen, red, and heavy, he opts for taking his hand and pulling him to their bedroom. Hannibal follows, clinging to Will like a child, letting him undress him, obediently slipping under the covers Will pulls back for him, arms stretched out as he curls on his side, waiting for Will as he pulls his shirt and pants off, not bothering to pick them up off the floor. Will gathers him back in his arms, humming quietly as Hannibal wraps their legs together, pushing back a few straight, grey strands that fall into his eyes.

Hannibal falls asleep quickly, exhaustion overtaking him. Will doesn't last much longer, empathy all but leaving him feeling just as hollow, but as his eyes drift shut, he thinks Hannibal has never looked as human.

**Author's Note:**

> The comments I got on the last work made me sooo happy you guys, thank you so much! I've had this in my drafts as well, so I didn't figure it made sense to wait. I promise I'll write happy stuff soon btw. I promise! *cries because it's like that ep. of spongebob where everything he cooks turns into crabby patties, except it's just angst* I am also aware this is kinda out of character for Hanni so let me say this: This man probably hasn't actually cried and let it all out since he was like eight. Let him have a breaking period.


End file.
